


The Ball Drops

by preetkiran1016



Series: Soldered Wires [2]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gay Panic, Holidays, M/M, Mike is a mess, New Year's Kiss, Pining, Private Eye Sammy, Sammike, Sammy is having a rough time, Soldered Wires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28463391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preetkiran1016/pseuds/preetkiran1016
Summary: There's a lot of things Sammy had expected out of life.Falling in love with his Purple Skeleton best friend wasn't one of them.Or- In which Sammy moves back home, and learns far more than he ever expected.
Relationships: Michael Afton/Sammy Emily
Series: Soldered Wires [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2123097
Comments: 1
Kudos: 37





	The Ball Drops

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OrangeGrove_Girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrangeGrove_Girl/gifts).



> Welcome, welcome! As I slide into this fandom, late, with pizza, as everything is on fire. 
> 
> Now enjoy the big brain ship.

The December chill cuts deep as Sammy leaves the office, the heavy door slamming shut, clipping him in the heels before he can get clear. Unfortunately, he hadn’t dressed well enough, gloves and hat left behind in the morning madness.

The weather report for the week hadn’t called for a snow-storm, but here they were.

The holidays had come with a gale force that surprised even Micheal, and the man had been living in a shit-box apartment that filled with snow every year. 

And if that didn’t piss Sammy off enough that he dragged the protesting purple skeleton to his home without thinking—

Somehow, it worked.

Three weeks of awkward cohabitation, and they were, somehow, getting along. 

Granted, his apartment was smaller than three elbows and a twist of a hip, but they made do. The pull out couch was working for now, at least until he could save enough to get Micheal an actual bed. 

Mike had been overjoyed with that, after sleeping on a broken spring mattress and cold concrete floors.

Even if he had refused to trade off use of the bed.

He said he felt like he was mooching off of Sammy too much already.

_“Like a leech. I’m not up to eating you out of house and home and stealing your bed too, Samuel.”_

Sammy sighed, rushing the usually short five-minute walk home (now tripled) and drenching him in wet down from the knees, thanks to the giant drifts of snow piled on the sidewalk before he can shove his way to the apartment entrance, stomping up the stairs and leaving wet footprints behind. His keys jiggle in the lock, sticks, and he tries again, before the door squeaks open.

Mike’s plastered along the couch, half through a good bottle of scotch and a box of pepperoni and cheese, glassy eyes staring down…

Wait.

Was he watching Frasier?

Slamming the door doesn’t elicit a response, so he shrugs off his coat, hanging it by the doorway and shucking off his mud boots before dropping onto the couch and stealing a slice. 

“What’s the deal, not watching ‘The Immortal & The Restless’ today?” he probes, “I thought you wouldn’t waste your time on anything less than ‘pure brilliance’?”

“They cancelled the next three weeks’ episodes.” Mike grumbled, taking a hefty swig (and Sammy struggles not to flinch at the _splosh_ of liquid as it hits what’s left of Mike’s stomach), “I hate everything.”

“Yeah? Well, how about you shut off the shit-show, and we can get some actual food? Some coffee?”

Mike levels him with a look that would be intimidating, if his hat wasn’t askew and on sideways, wispy brown hair poking through holes. Sammy grins back, snatching the bottle and corking it before shutting off the tv and heading into the tiny kitchenette.

Mike whines, limbs flailing in anger before he gives up, curling into a ball. 

It’s almost cute.

“C’mon!!!!!!! Can’t a man get drunk on his own time!!?”

“Not when I’m the one that’s gonna be cleaning your puke up later tonight.” Sammy hums, dropping the pizza in the fridge (it gets stuck a few times before he Jenga’s it in between the lettuce and whip cream cans). 

“Spoilsport.” Mike grumbles.

“You like it.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Mike huffs. And that shouldn’t send Sammy’s stomach into twists, but oh how it does.

It’s starting to become a problem.

* * *

The days crawl by, work keeping him out of the house more often than not. His leads dry up, and outside of earning a steady paycheck, his job becomes just that, a job.

Private investigation, though a noble endeavor, has gotten him nowhere fast.

Mike manages to sneak around the old Fazbear location a few times without getting caught, but finds no new leads.

Outside getting fired for a fourth time for, quote, ‘a most noxious odor’.

(At least the local Target didn’t seem to mind, if their continual hiring process was any consideration.) 

As far as they both know, William Afton had disappeared into thin air. 

“It doesn’t make sense! He was there! I just missed him when I was hired the first time!” Mike muses, flipping through notes and scratching out scribbles before crossing out whole pages. “It not like he can vanish into thin air!”

“It’s possible he’s lying low. Even with police looking for him, there’s only so much we can do. Even dad’s gone off radar, I haven’t heard from him in the last ten years, he’s considered MIA at this point.”

“But!”

“Mike... we’re not getting anywhere like this. We’re gonna run ourselves ragged.”

Mike slumps into what looks like a pretzel, skeletal fingers twinned round his ankles and head dropped between his knees. 

He groans, shutting a tome of yellow pages and dropping it to the floor before grabbing the two long cold cups of coffee.

“Want anything else while I get us fresh cups?” 

“Leave it, I can barely taste anyway, not gonna matter if you brew a fresh one.” 

He pauses, staring down at the long cold cups, the dark liquid reflecting his pallid face.

He knew it was bad, Mike was basically a walking skeleton, drank embalming fluid on the regular-

But-

He didn’t-

“Y-you can tell the difference between hot and cold, right?” 

“Barely, it has to be pretty significant to make a dent in whatever’s left of my taste buds. The caffeine is a nice boost.”

Sammy stares, though he meets the top of Mike’s hat as a response, and meeps out a response before shuffling into the kitchen and starting the Keurig again.

The next two cups are piping hot enough that it burns Sammy’s tongue, making his voice a scratchy mess; but the surprised (pleased?) look on Mike’s face (and the flush that follows) warms him through the rest of the night. 

* * *

_“Why can’t I play with Fredbear! It’s so cool!!!”_

_“Sammy, don’t be stupid, those things are creepy.”_

_“Charlie!! Dad said you can’t say those bad words! Plus Dad made Fredbear! It’ll be fine!”_

_Charlie levels him with a flat look, dark brown eyes... were they always drenched in tear tracks? Staring through him._

_“Sammy.”_

_The room dims, blurring around the edges like a not quite developed movie._

_“SAMMY.”_

_Black. Black and Red and Purple tear tracks._

_“SAMMY, RUN.”_

_His sister shifted, his hold on her hand breaking as her back curved, breaks, reforms._

_He cries, but she doesn’t let go, holds onto him tighter as he tries to pull away, screaming, her face shifting into a blank mask-_

Samuel shoots up, pj’s plastered to his skin in a cold sweat, panting for breath and shuddering, heart imprinting a tattoo of panic against his chest. 

He shuffles into the kitchen, blinking red digits blaring his shame of 3:40 am vodka shots to the small apartment.

As if he cared enough to give a shit.

“Nightmares?” 

“Mornin to you too, Mike.” He croaked, taking a swig directly from the handle.

“Hey, hey.” Mike mumbles, grabbing the bottle from Sammy’s hands with a softness that gave him whiplash. “And here I thought you were the one picking me up from midnight benders.”

“Yeah, well, consider it part of your rent.” He gasps out, staring into the void of the fridge, the white light in the midst of darkness a balm from-

From-

“Hey- c’mon. What’s got you so-”

“Charlie—Charlie—” He sputters, and Mike’s mouth shuts with a ‘click,’, and he babbles on, words tumbling out of his mouth like a torrent “What you- everything you told me—I can’t it’s still—I keep dreaming about it and—how she’s stuck there and I can’t—”

“Ok, ok, nevermind, shots for all.” Mike squeaks, voice cracking around the syllables. “Cmon, to the couch—”

They don’t make it that far, if not for Mike’s determination—Sammy just doesn’t care enough, slumping in front of the fridge and taking a hefty gulp from the now reclaimed vodka while Mike rummages for mixers and what few solo cups left from their impromptu Beer Pong challenge a few weeks ago.

It takes a few minutes to realize that Mike’s wearing his pj’s, the pants barely hanging off his hips, ties hanging loose and ignored and hanging together from the grace of enduring elastic—and Sammy can hardly hold back the hysterical laughter, choking on tears and pressing his forehead into bony legs to muffle the sobs.

Mike pats his head awkwardly, fingers scraping against his scalp, a monotonous hum that had his eyes shut and frame loosening.

Eventually, Mike drops to the floor and presses them together from shoulder to hip. 

Somehow, in the lull—or maybe he’d lost time in between panicking and sobbing like a five-year-old—Mike’d managed to grab the afghan and wrap it around them too. 

It’s... cozy.

Mike thrusts a mix of juice (mango?) and Vodka into his hands, and he stares into the cup, orange depths rippling before he gulps it down, bitter tang registering over the burn of tears and regrets.

“That’s the spirit!” Mike laughs, and shots clear spirits, laughing. 

He coughs.

“Shut up Mikey-”

“Hey, no nicknames till 10 shots in!”

“Who made that rule?”

“I did, just now.”

Samuel grins and holds out his cup. 

“Pour me another.”

“Wow, look at his majesty! Alright alright, don’t get too fussy…”

* * *

In the off beats, between the laughter and sullen anger, there’s a silence, heavy and full of grief. 

Mike sniffles.

“My old man was a bastard... what he did...”

Mike trails off, pensive, and takes another shot in the silence.

“He..do you know? What he did with her body?” He asks, voice a whisper in the darkness.

“No.”

Mike pauses, staring up at the ceiling like it’ll give him answers that are just out of reach, that have been out of reach for years. 

“I don’t think Henry even knew.”

Samuel thinks back to the divorce: to his father’s grief, his mother’s rage, and the break.

The years apart, birthday cards with words that rang hollow, and stunted one word conversations with a distorted voice and blurry face, unanswered questions, and phone that just... stopped ringing. 

A shell of a man barely moving under his own weight.

“Yeah... I figured.” 

More silence.

More shots.

“I miss her too. Y’know?”

He stares up into Mikey’s eyes, the same deep blue of the man who killed his sister, and Mike’s sister, and so many others; glowing eerily through the pervading dark; and knows.

“Yeah, I know.”

* * *

Hours later, as dawn cuts through dusty blinds, the two groan; shielding their eyes from the onslaught with flailing limbs and outcries of indignation.

“That was a horrible idea-”

Mike snorts. “I could’ve told you that, moron. You’ve got work!”

“I can call in sick..” He grumbles, knees protesting as he crawls up to his feet. 

“Uh-huh, says mister 100% perfect record.”

“You know what? Fuck you.”

Mike laughs, loud and bright, and for a moment, it’s like the nightmare never happened.

* * *

New years crept up in a flash. 

His office computer crashes a few times, the Y2K bursting onto the mainstream, a nightmare to all coders alive (and undead).

It just annoys Sammy that he can’t get his files updated fast enough for his clients.

Mike watches the newscast with a sort of sarcastic glee, eyes sparkling as the experts fall over themselves in order to get things sorted. 

“Maybe the animatronics will fall over and never turn on again, eh, Samuel?”

They could only hope.

They exchange small gifts for Christmas, neither of them can afford much when it comes to actual _stuff,_ but when Mike unwraps the CD player, it’s such a shock that he bursts into tears. 

It’s _just_ a CD player, Sammy got it from a Goodwill down the corner with what little pocket change he has left from paying utilities—but when Mike gets to play Queen for the first time in 10 years and sing along without abandon- unbridled joy and happiness clear on his face, it’s enough to have him singing along. 

Mikey has a gorgeous voice. 

It’s a shame he doesn’t sing as much as he likes.

It ends with Mikey begging Sammy to stop his third rendition of ‘Take on Me’ once he’s drunk on spiked apple cider and whiskey mix, but really, no one appreciates a good song when they hear it.

Take on me is a classic, and he’ll stan it to his dying day. 

(Mike got him a new kitchen knife block, and that has _him_ in tears. Honestly. No one appreciates a good knife nowadays.)

He makes an old Emily standard for dinner, macaroni and steak (done well, suck it haters!)

Despite all his griping about ‘healthy food’, Mike finishes the whole plate. 

“With compliments to the chef.” He grins, taking over the dishes, “Let me get this Samuel, you cooked a pretty bang up meal after all. I could even taste it.” 

The night winds down, as does the year.

And it’s been a weird year. Especially finding his half-dead old family friend in an alleyway and becoming his roommate? Best friend? (Crush?)

But it was good, despite all the bad and the innumerable mind boggling world shattering truths.

It at least put things into perspective.

And cleared out some misconceptions.

Except for one.

Was he attracted to skeletons?

Because it was messing with him an unhealthy amount.

Like he knew he was bi. That wasn’t hard to figure out. It was just... easy to ignore. Date a few girls, see a cute guy and wonder…

What if… What if…

Mom hated that he came back up here, left their new life in Florida to return to the tragedy. She always called, always asked about the newest gal, and it just... felt hollow.

Like he was putting on a play.

Like she was waiting for him to give up on the truth, on his goals and his dreams, and just... settle.

The last girl he had dated… She was sweet. Yeah. But… 

She hadn’t understood either. Beth had expected him to work his 9-5, come home, to have kids and to never think about his past, about the skeletons in his closet. Like he could be part of a cookie cutter family and just..

Act like his past didn’t shape who he was in any meaningful way.

Mom had liked Beth. Mom hated when they broke up.

Mom didn’t like Amy, and Sammy thought he had loved her, she had tried so hard. To get him to confront the devils he was chasing, to help him move on from the ghosts he held onto. But she moved on; to better opportunities for her career, and he couldn’t blame her for it.

This… this felt different to anything else.

He always wondered if he could try—

If the looks and laughter—

The smiles and stealing clothes and sharing food—

Did it mean something? 

Was he overthinking it?

Maybe it was worth... just trying?

Mikey had gone out earlier, the barest smidge of foundation still smeared across his cheekbone where the remover had failed several attempts at its job. The wig and contacts were still in place though, and the now familiar blond hair and grey eyes greeted him when he got home, along with a fresh stash of groceries. 

Thankfully, one of them had thought to run out before everything shut down for the night.

Now, curled up together on the couch with spiked eggnog and the TV turned to ABC, he’s more comfortable than he’s been in... years.

The timer ticks down, minutes away from midnight as they wait for the ball drop, radio playing soft music and the tv muted—hosts tinny voices ignored in favor of hushed whispers and drunken laughter.

He could get used to this. He thinks. 

He’s gotten used to this.

Wonders, what will happen when their job is done.

When they find their fathers, both of them, and deal with them, in their respective ways. (Though he knows if he finds William he’ll be the first to kill the bastard—if not for Charlie, for what he did to Mikey.)

But…

He stares at the timer on screen, with two minutes left on the clock—

“Where are you lost, Samuel? Too many rabbit holes to wander down?”

“What?” He blinks, “No I’m just thinking…”

“Well, you wanna share with the class?” Mike smirks, and that smear of foundation catches the light and-

“You’ve got some-” he drifts, reaching out (and when did mike’s face get so close?) and thumbs off the leftover powder.

It just smudges further into Mike’s skin.

“Dammit. I made it worse.” He laughs, hand falling to the couch. 

Mike looks like he’s swallowed his own tongue, half caught leaning forward into the touch and disappointed it stopped.

The timer ticks closer to midnight.

It’s…

It’s…

He’s not sure who moves. If either of them move.

The timer ticks to zero.

He doesn’t see the ball drop.

To be fair, he doesn’t think Mike sees it either.

Mike’s in his lap. Are they kissing? They’re kissing.

Holy shit.

He doesn’t have the chance to process what’s going on, other than _HE’S KISSING MIKEY,_ before it stops.

Mikey pulls back, face flush dark violet and already stuttering, knuckled twisted in Samuel’s lapels—

“I-I-I oh shit I’m sorry I’m gonna—I thought-”

Mike’s babbling, and Sammy can’t parse much of it, outside of a few words and the white-knuckle grip he’s got on his shirt, the fabric straining under the force, and really -

He just wants to kiss him again.

So he does.

And again.

And again.

Till Mike flushes and pushes him off the couch, flushed and confused and elated-

Sammy laughs and pulls him to bed.

For once, neither of them sleeps on the couch.

**Author's Note:**

> The ship of all ships. We (my bestie and I) are the lone captains, sailing our ship amidst a lonely sea, knowing we are right.
> 
> Sammy/Michael
> 
> Sammike.
> 
> Now watch me spiral into insanity while I fill up this tag.
> 
> A Very merry Christmas Gift For my Best Friend, whom put this idea in my head and let it flourish.
> 
> If you wanna come yell at us for the genius, we at: 
> 
> https://superspazcatart.tumblr.com/  
> https://preetkiran1016.tumblr.com/


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